


Discretion is the better part

by bluebells



Series: This is how he looks after you [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Cultural Identity, Dedicated to the Victorian maidens who have the vapours over Din's bare wrist, Intentional change in past/present tenses, M/M, Mutual antagonism respect and fire, Paz and Din have an arrangement, Secret Relationship, Set during s01e03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24508327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: "Have you ever removed your helmet?" The Armourer challenges.The dark vibroblade hums at Din's throat. It takes a moment for the words to process. And then his heart skips a beat.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Paz Vizla
Series: This is how he looks after you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997341
Comments: 14
Kudos: 346





	Discretion is the better part

**Author's Note:**

> I offer two kinds of respite: domestic fluff and filth. The latter this time with a hint of plot because the existential angst of being a refugee and one of your people's sole survivors... is kind of shit.

"Have you ever removed your helmet?" The Armourer challenges.

The dark vibroblade hums at Din's throat. It takes a moment for the words to process. And then his heart skips a beat.

(The first time-- his ragged groans echoed in the helmet before he shoved it off and gasped into the sheets, grabbing desperate fistfuls for an anchor as his lungs strained for fresh air-- stale and still like everything in the sewers of Nevarro, but it's better than what his helmet allowed, and he needed it as a larger, muscled body folded down against his back, intent to pin his writhing beneath that bulk--)

Din's arm is steady but his reach is shorter. People often underestimate how fast Paz can move for being so large and, with his long limbs, how much sooner his hits would connect.

Paz barely reacts to the vibroblade at his own chin. Din's eyes narrow, holding the glare he can sense through the visor. "... No."

_"Our world was shattered by the Empire with whom this coward shares tables.”_

It makes Din’s throat tighten. His blood boils. He hasn't. He hasn't betrayed them. He would never--

The Armourer does not hesitate. "Has it ever been removed by others?"

Din's mouth is dry.

(The second time-- He'll never forget how his heart leapt as Paz moulded against his back and lifted it free (slow, careful and reverent, he knew the trust this took); hot, ragged grunts of air smearing the short hairs on his nape, a rumbling growl made Din arch with a shiver of pleasure, yielding to long fingers on his bare throat, he was held still and close and firm; and he fought so hard to stay silent, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted and gasping into the thin mattress as Paz widened in his kneel, pulled Din's hips higher against him; and his gloves felt rough but his thrusts were smooth, slow and heavy, and Din sobbed quietly, shaking and grateful for the blindfold hiding his tears as Paz carved a space for himself deep inside, burning and slick and good, so good--)

Heart racing, Din glances from their leader to Paz. Will the man betray him here? Expose him before the Armourer as he did to the shadows of Paz's own quarters?

It’s different, of course. Under the shroud of privacy, Din had relented to Paz’s offer to relieve stress, allowed the heavy infantry close enough to hear him exhale long and pleased when he got his hand under Din’s armour, sliding firm along his abdomen, searching and possessive, grasping Din's side and pulling him in close until Din allowed that solid wall of beskar and muscle to take his weight. Din’s jaw clenches at the memory of the man’s voice in his ear, rumbling low and warm through his bones with the familiar promise of distraction.

_“Let us care for you while you care for the covert, beroya.”_

Chin raised above the vibroblade at his throat, Din scowls at the big blue infantryman now staring him down. He doesn’t take it personally. There is little Paz wouldn’t do for the covert.

_“Has it ever been removed by others?”_

"Never," he says, voice steady with the lie.

Paz does not contradict him.

"This is the way," the Armourer reminds them, as a matter of fact.

"This is the way." The affirmation echoes through the halls, and Paz slowly lowers his blade, bold stance relaxing. He inclines his head, and Din doesn’t pretend it’s for anyone but the Armourer and the man’s deference to her command. 

“This is the way.”

Din scowls at him, though he’ll never see it, resuming his seat across from the Armourer. Tension holds his breath tight as Paz hovers at his shoulder, the piles of reclaimed beskar ingots gleaming before them.

A part of him hoped the taller Mandalorian would have been pleased to see the beskar returned. This was their heritage. It belonged with them. And for those descended from the old houses, like Paz, they might have argued it belonged with _them_ more than most. But the Armourer would not hear such distinctions. That was not their way. 

For Din… it didn't sting until he was standing among his people again, knowing he had bartered, and not won the beskar in battle.

(His gut tightens with guilt remembering the large, dark eyes of the child imploring him as it was led away.)

With their numbers so diminished, it will be a long time before the covert sees battle again. Din hopes he’ll live to see that day.

///

Before the mission that brought Din to the child, he had lain side by side with Paz in the man’s quarters, their skin cooling with sweat.

"What news of the outside world?" Paz had asked him.

Helmet back on, Din cocked his head in a shrug and elbowed him to make space on the narrow bed. “The same,” he said. “People run. I find them. I get paid.”

An arm tucked behind his head, Paz opened his other arm to make space for Din rather than move over. “Have you seen any others?”

Din stiffened, shoulders dropping with a sigh. Paz often asked this. There had to be others. One day, Paz promised, they would find them and then they would rebuild the glory of Mandalore.

The Armourer thought differently. The old houses and clans were dead. Foundlings, she said. The foundlings are the future.

“No. No rumours either.” Din was almost sorry to disappoint him and tried to soften the blow. He rubbed his left wrist, an old habit from adjusting the glove where it often parted from his sleeve. “But I don’t look for them.” They could still be out there.

Paz grunted and surprised him by taking his left hand, lifting and examining it. Suddenly, Din itched for his gloves. For a horrifying moment, he was certain Paz would lace their fingers together.

He did not.

“Perhaps for the best,” Paz said, thumb gently kneading the lines of his tendons from wrist to knuckle, an idle massage. It felt nice. His hands were strong. “When Mandalorians meet, we fight more often than unite.”

Din looked at him in surprise. It was no secret among anyone that Mandalorians had made their own homeworld inhospitable after centuries of civil war… and even after that, in recent decades before the Empire, it had taken so long before the clans united under _her_ , but to hear Paz admit it?

"Even now?" Din wondered aloud. "When so few of us are left?"

It's too quiet now they're finished and Din had to listen to the steady in and out of Paz's breaths by his ear. In the shadows of the corner, a small air purifier beeped on a new cycle, and Din focused on its mechanical hum. Lazy and warm at his side, Paz turned his hand and thumbed the long line arching over Din’s palm.

Din searched the dark, reinforced glass of Paz's visor and remembered those lips on the back of his neck, wet kisses mouthed and bitten at his ear, how his laughter curled hot and smug against Din's temple as he cried out beneath him. Cheeks heating, Din repressed a shiver and glared hard at the ceiling. He would not dwell on how Paz's lips might have felt against his, the way Paz would groan into him, what it would feel like to taste another person. The hand in Paz's grip clenched to a fist, released... and tensed again. He took a deep, steadying breath; and another.

At last, Paz spoke, voice gentle, his thoughts far away. “I hope not. But it _is_ our nature."

"But it is not the way," Din said.

Paz stilled. He laid Din’s hand on his chest as though handing it back, and sank against the thin pillows with a sigh. “No,” he conceded, voice hollow. “Not anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bellsybuilds) or [Tumblr](https://bellsybuilds.tumblr.com).
> 
>  **Permissions:** You do not need to ask for permission to make translations, podfics, fanfic or fanart for any of my stories-- I do ask that you link back to my original work and let me know because I would LOVE to share what you've created.


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